The Bedeviled Viscount Brockton, page 5
And through it all, Prinny kept building, and the dandies, out of their desperation, kept parading and gambling too deep. The ladies of the ton kept up their lavish entertainments, the radicals kept haranguing, and the poor became poorer, angrier. All that was needed, in Simon’s opinion, was a fiddler and a fat fellow named Nero to pound out the tune while the country burned down around all their ears.
For himself, Simon had done his possible with his estates in Sussex: cutting rents, installing the best stewards he could, and staying in almost daily contact with his people while he worked behind the scenes in London. He had quietly set up and now supported a half dozen charities. He had taken up his place in government, argued for some semblance of sanity both publicly and privately, employed as many servants as he could, and gave his lavish custom to shopkeepers, haberdashers, and vintners who were badly in need of paying patrons.
It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could do. As much as he detested the degree of waste and the spendthrift ways of the London Season, he was aware that the fits and follies of London society also provided the sole support of thousands of people, from the chimney sweep to the carriage maker to the umbrella sellers in small shops along the side streets of the Metropolis.
Simon liked his friends Bartholomew Boothe and Armand Gauthier for many reasons, but uppermost in value was that they shared his concerns over the hell-bent-for-leather rush to perdition that many of their acquaintance were pursuing. Brummell, for one, was soon going to be forced out of England entirely, because of personal economic reverses brought on by reckless gaming, and because the man had a mouth that was much too glib for someone of mediocre birth and limited funds. Next to go, Simon felt sure, would be Richard Brinsley Sheridan, three parts genius, one part glorious fool, who continued to spend money long after his pockets had been emptied.
And then there was George, Simon’s own dear Lord Byron, who doggedly held to his belief that the people of England, if not the ton, would never abandon him, even as scandal upon scandal rocked his former glory, driving him deeply into debt, pushing him headlong toward personal disaster.
It was for that reason, and to discuss both Brummell and Sheridan, that Simon was originally to have come to White’s today, to sip wine with Bartholomew and Armand and consider possible ways of rescuing their friends from their own follies.
As Simon approached the table it was to see both Bones and Armand already there. He paused a moment to observe his friends without their knowledge, as they hadn’t seen him as yet, and were deep in some argument.
Bartholomew Boothe was a most intriguing man to look upon, if one was of a mind to investigate the intricacies of the human skeletal structure without having to go to the bother of performing an actual autopsy: rail skinny, bony, and with a skin that was rather thin both physically and in attitude.
Of only medium height, with pale hazel eyes and unfortunately stringy brown hair, he had nothing much to show the world, and he believed that the world had even less to show him. But he was a good enough egg for all of that, Simon knew, loyal and true, if a bit of a dark cloud. He kept his friends centered, unable to go off on a potentially injurious lark without first considering all the dire consequences Bartholomew Boothe could see lurking behind every silver lining. Simon and Armand considered his bare-bones attitude and opinions much in keeping with his physical appearance, which was the reason behind his rather strange nickname.
An opposite to Bartholomew in every way, Armand Gauthier was tall, devastatingly handsome, and of a sunny disposition that made him popular with both sexes—although the gentler gender saw possibilities in his startling blue eyes, dramatic, long black hair, and impressive physique that went miles beyond the appreciation of his male friends. And, to most of the world, he was an enigma, which made Simon doubly flattered to have Armand see him not only as a valued friend, but as a confidant as well.
It was Armand who saw Simon first. Probably sensed his presence. Armand was like that. Deep. Faintly mysterious. “Simon’s here, Bones,” he said as Simon pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tell him what you’ve just been telling me.”
Bones shuddered, only once, as he was an economical man in all things, then declared flatly and without preamble: “Rains every day in London, I was telling Armand. Every day. Every night. Rain’s a curse.”
“And there you have it, Simon,” Armand Gauthier said, “the definitive answer to the question what is rain?—as delivered by our own good Barebones himself. It’s a curse. I will only dare to speak for myself, of course, but I know that I, for one, shall rest easier having had that explained to me. Rain’s a curse.”
Simon only smiled and shook his head. “Don’t tease him, Armand. The poor fellow probably had a hard night of it. First the gaming hell, and a few losses, if what I saw before I left was any indication of how the fellow’s luck was running. And then a ride home at dawn through yet another pouring-down rain. Is that right, Bones? You’re disgruntled, and rightly so. Poor Bones. Should we fear you’ll be fading into a sad decline?”
“Of the pair of you,” Bones shot back, “I consider you to be far and away the worst, Simon. Armand teases openly. You grin pleasantly enough, say all the right things, then wait until I’m feeling mellow to sink your knife in to the hilt. Yes, I lost last night. I lost, lost, lost! Happy now?”
“I will confess to being rapturous, Bones, if you wish it,” Simon answered calmly enough. “However, I will also remind you that I warned the pair of you against playing too deep last night. Personal amusement or profit were not the motives for the evening’s entertainment, if you’ll recall.”
“Although you seemed to do worst of all of us, Simon, which I presume was your point,” Armand put in, then looked to the still-frowning Bartholomew. “Bones—do you mean to blame your losses on our erstwhile friend?”
“Not erstwhile. I’m not that fickle. He’s still m’friend,” Bartholomew corrected. “Although friendship’s a curse, too, if you were going to ask, Armand. Friendship, rain—they both run down the back of your neck in cold dribbles at times.”
Armand shot Simon a blighting smile. “Isn’t our good friend delightful? There are times I simply long to wrap him up in cotton wool to keep him safe from the world’s travails. I would then take him out from time to time, and perch him on my mantel, show him off to company when they call. Oh—and you might want to buy his dinner tonight, Simon. Mine, too, come to think of it. I actually believe I’m down a good hundred pounds thanks to your notion of what constitutes a profitable evening. I only hope you don’t plan to make gaming in such private hells an ongoing custom, as I have found that I much prefer our own more civilized clubs, and cards dealt from somewhere closer to the top of the deck.”
“From the top of the—I knew it!” Bones exclaimed, slapping a hand against his forehead. “There was fuzzing going on, wasn’t there? Well? Wasn’t there? Stap me if I’m going back there, no matter how much you beg me, Simon.”
“Well?” Armand prompted when Simon didn’t answer Bones. “Are we to become inveterate gamblers at all the low dives, with bailiffs living in our drawing rooms, ready to pick our bones for bills owing—they won’t have much luck with you, dear Barebones, will they now?—or are we done with such evil places? You know Bones and I won’t allow you to frequent such hellish places unaccompanied.”
Simon made a great business out of tracing a small cross on his chest. “Upon my word, my friends, I will not darken the door of any gaming hell in this city again. I shan’t have to, now that the bait has been dangled. From now on, the game will be played in more familiar and decidedly friendlier waters.”
“You’re that certain the fish will bite? I believe that’s a tad arrogant, Simon.”
“Fish do bite,” Bartholomew announced solemnly. “So do sharks. They take big bites out of your pockets and leave you bloody. Ripped. Torn. Not a pretty sight. Next thing you know, you’re lost in misery and hanging yourself from a lamppost just off Bond Street. It happened to my Great-uncle Theodore.” He then frowned, looking pained. “We don’t talk about it much—upsets m’mother.”
Simon eyed Bartholomew consideringly, his affection for the man keeping him from laughing aloud at his doom-and-gloom remarks. “Sharks? Is that so, Bones? Well then, perhaps I should consider using a larger hook?”
“A stout cudgel would be more the thing,” Bartholomew opined earnestly, obviously having given the notion some serious contemplation at one time or another. “Knock the shark senseless, firmly on the snout; it’s the best way.”
“I’ll give that some thought as well,” Simon promised as, with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the empty chairs at the table. “Am I late, or too early? Or is it worse than that?”
“Considerably worse,” Armand told him, even as a servant placed a glass of Simon’s preferred champagne in front of him. “Your latest appeals to Prinny have fallen on deaf ears, I’m afraid. Sheridan’s gone to ground to avoid prison for debt. So many friends our dear Richard had, and every last one of them currently unable to remember his name, let alone his great deeds or brilliant wit. He’s ill, Simon, gravely ill, and has probably gone off to die of a broken spirit, if you don’t mind a modicum of melodrama. Although Dickie, knowing the man, would doubtless prefer to play the thing as a farce.”
“You’re probably right. He’s such a proud man beneath that wit,” Simon said, tossing back his first measure of champagne as if it were water, then thanking the servant who quickly poured him another glassful. “Where are the others?”
Bartholomew pulled two scraps of paper from his coat pocket and read them one after the other: “‘Are you mad, man? One of the clock? In the afternoon?’ Afternoon is underlined, three times. And this one: ‘I never was much the one for pity. Pity.’ Can you guess which is which, Simon?”
Simon pushed a hand through his hair, dislodging its former neatness, allowing it to fall into its more natural waves, which gave him a casual, youthful appearance his valet deplored and his mother adored. “The first from Beau, the second courtesy of George,” he mumbled, then looked to Armand. “And the pair of them roundly insulted by our gesture, I suppose?”
Armand, who was lounging very much at his ease in his chair, stretched forth one long, fashionably covered arm and took up his wineglass. “Certainement. As I tried to warn you. Just as you would have turned away from all overtures of assistance had any of them offered it to you. However, you are not alone in your ambitions to help Byron, at least. Knowing you don’t look at your invitations until we press you to do so, you may not yet have noticed that there will be a large party next week at Almack’s, hosted by a dozen or so well-meaning but ill-advised ladies hoping to bring our poor George back into favor. It will be a dismal failure, of course, especially as dear Augusta Leigh is also known to be on the guest list.”
“Not at Almack’s, surely. And they’ve invited Augusta—George’s sister?”
“Half sister, Simon,” Bartholomew corrected, gnawing on his knuckle. “Half sister, friend, compatriot—chérie amour?”
“Can it get any worse?” Simon groaned, slapping his palm against the tabletop, which earned him more than a few interested glances from other occupants of the room. “What do they think that will accomplish, other than George’s utter destruction? He won’t attend, will he?”
“With rings on his fingers and bells on his toes. At least the scribblings in the betting book here are leaning heavily that he will, and that, to a man, everyone will turn their backs the moment he enters the room,” Armand said, nodding his head as if in full agreement with the outcome the bettors were backing.
“We have to stop him, talk some sense into him,” Simon declared feelingly.
“You can’t save him from his own folly, Simon, no matter how hard you try, any more than we can continue to bail Beau out of the River Tick now that Prinny’s so set against his one time friend. It would only be throwing good money after bad, is the saying, I believe. That said, would you care for a stroll down Bond Street, as we’ll accomplish nothing by sitting here, displaying ourselves for the edification of the masses, as it were. There’s this neckcloth I’ve been fancying—”
Simon waved Armand back into his chair. “I was abducted at gunpoint after leaving you last night,” he said baldly, having decided he needed his friends’ full attention. Other than to light himself on fire, this statement seemed the quickest way of getting it.
“What? Never say so!” Bartholomew sputtered, then frowned, looking closely at Simon. “When? Where? After you left us? Well, that’s what comes of frequenting low gaming hells, or so I say. Probably served you right.”
“Why, thank you for asking, Bones. I’m quite fine, completely uninjured after my harrowing experience. I must say, the concern and comfort of my friends at times such as these is all that sustains me,” Simon purred, lifting his glass once more. “Armand? Have you nothing to say?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he answered, then reconsidered. “Why, yes, perhaps I do have something to say. I believe Bones here to be dashed happy he chose to ride home with me last night. Do I have that right, Bones?”
Bartholomew nodded his agreement. “Tell us,” he mumbled around a mouthful of knuckle. “What all happened, and why aren’t you dead? Most people would be dead, you know.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Bones.” Not one to waste valuable time in hurt feelings, however, Simon simply motioned for his friends to lean closer across the tabletop, then quickly went over the events that had transpired after he’d left them behind at the gaming tables. Also not one to flatter himself with nonsense meant to make him appear in a better light, he left out none of his humiliation at the hands of the mysterious Miss C.
“Vaulted onto the horse without assistance?” Bartholomew questioned him as Simon’s story ran down to its fairly embarrassing conclusion. “But I thought you said it was a girl? No female could do that.”
“Bones,” Armand put in, “our friend here might not always recognize the nuances dividing a Waterfall draped neckcloth and the Mathematical knot, but I have it on good authority that he is a positive genius at deducing the subtle differences between males and females. I tend to believe him, and only wish that I could have been with him, to witness this grand sight.”
“You wouldn’t have thought that at the time, with a clog winging toward your head, although I do remember myself reflecting later that you might have been tickled,” Simon said, draining the contents of his glass. “But I also believe both of you are missing the point. This girl, this Miss C, is bent on shooting Noel Kinsey. I can’t let that happen.”
Bartholomew frowned, his thin lips drawing up in a distasteful pucker. “You’re going to warn him, aren’t you? Why? It’s not as if we like the man. Does it really matter who brings him down?”
“You truly don’t understand, do you, Bones?” Armand commiserated, patting his friend’s hand, “Even after spending half of last night watching Simon here lose hand after hand to the fellow. For very good reasons, our own Simon-pure here has decided to bring the dear earl of Filton low. Now, how would it look if some little milk-and-water country chit with big green eyes was to beat him to it? Why, he might never get over the ignominy of it.”
Simon smiled without humor. “Exactly. I don’t know what our young lady’s motives may be, and I really don’t care. Mine take precedence.”
“You’ve got a reason to be going after Kinsey? You really do? You’re not funning with me? You have something deep in mind? Why didn’t I know this? Don’t I listen? I’m sure I listen. You just don’t talk. That’s not nice, Simon. Does Armand know? Yes, I’m sure he does, even if no one bothered to tell me. I simply thought you’d scrambled your brains at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon yesterday afternoon, sparring with Armand here,” he admitted sheepishly. “I mean, why else would we go to a gaming hell, when we can lose much more comfortably here at White’s? I never before saw you have such a plaguy run of bad luck, Simon. Oh, and did I say I’m sorry you were kidnapped and all that? I should have said that, shouldn’t I? Sorry.”
Simon chuckled, amused by his friend’s rambling confusion. “That’s all right, Bones, I forgive you. And, yes, I am most definitely after the earl. I’ll tell you about it, but at some other time, in a more private place, all right? Filton’s been playing most often in gaming hells, finding the pickings easier there, where no one cavils overmuch at the slight fuzzing of a few cards—or even knows they’re being fuzzed. I don’t like him, but I must say the man is an accomplished cheat, so that it took someone with Armand’s vast and varied experience, and now mine, to spot him at it. I mean to draw Filton out into the open, back to the clubs, so that I—hoping to be proved a worthy student of Armand’s expertise—can then fleece him very publicly, which he roundly deserves. I do not, however, wish the man dead. Merely dead broke, and on his way to the Continent with many of the others who have had to flee their creditors.”
Armand shook his head. “Which is why we’ll be seeing much more of Noel Kinsey than we have the stomach for until the deed is done, I presume? It will be delicate work, Simon, if you mean to ruin him, not just relieve him of some of his money, and do it honestly at that. You can’t empty his pockets too quickly, or he’ll become suspicious and bolt back to his favorite haunts. If little Miss Green Eyes doesn’t put a hole in him first, of course.”
Simon sighed, fingering his champagne glass. “It’s strange. I never thought I’d be trying to save a man like him from having a hole blown through him. It’s lowering, that’s what it is. Although I will admit that the possibility of an encounter with the inventive Miss C tickles my fancy. We will find her soon enough, I’m sure of it, skulking about, doing her possible to get Filton in her sights and then shooting him like a dog. She struck me as a very determined sort.”
